


is it raining where you are?

by himbosamevans



Category: Glee
Genre: Blangst, M/M, Post-Break Up, Season/Series 04, depressed blaine :(, i kept seeing that everywhere n it took me too long to realise it means blaine angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:00:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24280966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/himbosamevans/pseuds/himbosamevans
Summary: He freezes when he sees the caller id.He hasn’t changed the contact photo. It’s them, at Prom 2012; despite himself, he smiles a little. His hair was truly awful that night. But Kurt looked impeccable, of course he did, even when he hadn’t necessarily dressed for a real prom. They’re laughing, open-mouthed at something behind the camera — God, who took that photo, Mercedes? — and they look really, really happy.Blaine can’t remember the last time he felt happy like that.
Relationships: Blaine Anderson/Kurt Hummel
Comments: 10
Kudos: 42





	is it raining where you are?

On top of everything else in his life, Blaine is not anticipating the phone call.

He had actually been trying to get some sleep, for once; he’d been drowning in all of his newfound extracurriculars — student body president, president of the _Secret Society of Superheroes_ club, sewing club, D&D club, his 5 AP classes, and, the first thing he does after getting home from an after-school mall spree with Tina, is squeeze in time for a few missions on Halo 4 with Sam and Artie. Despite it, he doesn't really feel fulfilled, or happy. He just feels exhausted.

Even stupid, thoughtless tasks he used to enjoy seem out of reach; he can’t even bring himself to do the things that made him happy, like watch cheesy 00’s romcoms or play his _Earth, Wind and Fire_ records — the acts seem like too much strain on top of everything else, like his brain chemistry is so utterly altered that after buzzing and fizzing all day he can’t take the time to let himself dwindle. Rationally, he knows Mark Ruffalo in _13 Going on 30_ will probably make him feel a little better, but he can’t find it in himself to get up and put the DVD in. It’s not that he doesn’t want to, either, it’s just that he seems to be completely sapped of energy and motivation. Like he’s all or nothing, all the time. Every day, he’s not living, he’s just walking around and doing whats expected of him.

He’s either working, or he’s lying in bed without sleeping. He comes home, studies for his AP Italian test even though he knows the vocab, because he seems to be forgetting it every pop quiz anyway, goes over his physics flashcards, calls Sam and sympathises with him over Brittany, hangs up when his mom calls for dinner, picks at his spaghetti and avoids questions from his parents, heads back upstairs after two mouthfuls, finishes his AP US History essay, gets yelled at by his father for being disrespectful during dinner, tries not to cry, and gets changed into his pyjamas without taking a shower.

The hardest part is dinner. He finds himself being so thoughtlessly rude to his parents; his mom, especially, which hurts him a little when he realises he’s doing it. It’s just that they’re being so _irritating,_ and it doesn’t really feel like it’s out of concern for him, either. His mom just keeps asking him if he’s managing his AP classes, which, yes, he is, don’t worry about it, and his dad keeps asking him if there’s any nice _girls_ in said AP classes, which makes his skin crawl in ways he doesn’t especially want to investigate, and then, to top it all off, his mom spends the latter half of dinner crowing about a new part (as an extra) that Cooper has scored in a late-night medical TV drama. Like, the last thing in his life that he can cling onto is _not_ being the burned out, college dropout sibling, and _that_ doesn’t even matter in the eyes of his parents, because he still can’t measure up. To fucking _Cooper_.

When he lies down, the gel makes his pillow feel gross, and greasy, and he knows it will probably make him break out to sleep on it tonight, but he doesn’t really care. He’ll shower in the morning, maybe. He knows it’s honestly disgusting, but it can feel hard sometimes — to shower, that is. Like, he’s so tired, bone-deep _exhausted_ from living, that crawling into his ensuite and turning on the shower just seems unattainable, out of reach. And in the morning he just rinses the gel out of his hair in the sink, and stares up at himself in the bathroom mirror, gaunt and pale like he wasn’t before. Overcompensates with deodorant, re-gels his hair much harsher, slicker than he used to because at this point it feels like it’s the only thing he can control as his life spins around him. Like if he glues down his curls he’ll glue down the pieces of himself that are flying away. He knows that it’s stupid.

He tosses and turns in the dark for what could have been hours, but was probably around 15 minutes, listening to the patter of the rain on the windows, before his cell phone rings. He lets it go for two chimes, before leaning over and grabbing it from the bedside table. It’s probably Tina, he surmises to himself, asking for the AP Psych notes. She’d be livid if he didn’t get them to her.

He freezes when he sees the caller id.

He hasn’t changed the contact photo. It’s them, at Prom 2012; despite himself, he smiles a little. His hair was truly _awful_ that night. But Kurt looked impeccable, of course he did, even when he hadn’t necessarily dressed for a real prom. They’re laughing, open-mouthed at something behind the camera — God, who took that photo, Mercedes? — and they look really, really happy.

Blaine can’t remember the last time he felt happy like that.

Then, the stone dropping in his stomach finally thuds, hits the bottom, scatters sand, and he realises that Kurt is calling him. For a second, he doesn’t know what to do. And then he presses accept.

“ _Hello_?” It’s definitely Kurt’s voice on the other side — Blaine’s heart flutters in his chest, butterflies spreading between his ribs. For an awful second, he’d expected it to be Rachel or something, drunk and berating him for breaking Kurt’s heart. It wouldn’t be the first time. He remembers it’s rude not to say anything, and, God, he must sound so weird, just breathing back down the line at him.

“Uh, hi. Hi.”

“ _Blaine. Hi._ ”

He swallows thickly. “Wh — whats up?”

“ _I just_ ,” Kurt falters on the other line, his breathing hitches clear down the receiver, “ _I wanted to hear your voice._ ”

“Oh.”

“ _I’m sorry — I think I should go_.”

“No!” He can’t stop himself, doesn’t care if he’s embarrassing himself. It’s the first time Kurt’s spoken to him in weeks — no, months. He kind of thought he’d deleted his number. “I mean — don’t. Don’t go, yet. I,” he swallows, “I just want to talk to you. A little.”

“ _Okay_ ,” Kurt’s breathing is even and loud on the other line, like the phone is pressed a little too close to his face. Blaine can’t think of anything to say. His eyes dart to the window, where the venetian blinds are lowered, stopping just four inches above his windowsill, exposing the pitch-black of the night outside. Raindrops trickle down the window, reflecting off the white of the windowpane, illuminating themselves.

“Is it raining where you are?”

“ _Uh_ ,” Kurt pauses, and Blaine imagines he’s craning to see out the window, “ _no. I think it was, earlier, though. I don’t know. Listen, Blaine, I really have to go. This was a bad idea, and I’ve had a little too much Pinot Grigio —_ ”

“I miss you so much,” the words are out before Blaine even realises he’s going to speak, his voice cracking, and he realises his eyes are watery. “Sorry — I just. I really miss you. It’s been so long.”

“ _Yeah_ ,” Kurt’s breath shudders on the other end, “ _it has. I think it’s the longest we’ve went without speaking since_ ,” he pauses, “ _since we met, I guess._ ” Huffs a laugh.

“Do you,” Blaine hesitates, unsure if he wants to hear the answer. When he speaks, it’s in a meek voice, “do you miss me, too?”

“ _You know I do, Blaine._ ” Kurt’s voice cracks a little, too, and there’s something warm in Blaine’s stomach at that, as bad as he knows it is to find relief in Kurt's misery. He’d been tearing himself apart, wondering if Kurt had already moved on, already in love with a new New York boyfriend.

“Please,” Blaine begs, but he doesn’t really know what he’s begging _for_. “We — it was one mistake, Kurt, and I’ll — we can be good again. We can be so good.”

“ _No._ ” Kurt sucks in a trembling breath, harsh on the phone line, “ _no, Blaine. It’s — we can’t. I’ll. I’ll speak to you soon, maybe. Bye._ ”

He still holds the phone to his ear, even though Kurt has already hung up without waiting for an answer, just a little click and then crackling on the end of the line. His eyes seem to come back to him, and he glances around the room, settling on his bookshelf. It’s a tall, oaken thing; used to be Cooper’s. He swallows thickly again.

He hasn’t taken any of the pictures of Kurt down — flipped one over, face-down on the shelf one night in a fit of tears, couldn’t bear to look at it anymore — but the rest are still up. Him and Kurt at Prom 2011, Kurt with the little sceptre tucked under Blaine’s chin, tilting his head up with it coyly, Blaine’s hand wrapped proprietarily around Kurt’s waist, as they both try to withhold giggles for the photo. Kurt and Blaine at Virginia Beach, where he’d accompanied, along with Rachel, the Hummel-Hudsons on a family roadtrip. Kurt’s hand is in front of his face, the sun in his eyes, but he’s beaming all the same. Blaine has his arm wrapped companionably around Kurt’s shoulders, grinning underneath his sunglasses, a worn t-shirt pulled on for the photo, his pineapple boardshorts clinging to his legs from when he’d been in the water. Kurt and Cooper, on that day he’d visited, Kurt totally starstruck and blushing, pointing up at Cooper’s megawatt smile.

A few other knicknacks are dotted around the photo frames; a ‘Young Riders’ polo trophy from middle school, nudged aside by a 2009 Dalton Lacrosse team trophy he’d won freshman year; a little blue piggy bank he’d painted for Cooper in 3rd grade that has somehow returned to Blaine’s room, harbouring all of $4; a few ratty _Beatles_ members’ biographies he’s thumbed through too many times to count; a crinkled plastic bottle he’d tried to reuse on a pro-environment kick, the Dasani wrapping long-gone; and a few polaroids of him and Kurt.

He stands up, forgetting he’s under his comforter and kicks it off where it traps around his legs, glides over to the bookshelf, thumbs through them. A self-portrait, Kurt kissing his cheek, their faces pale from the flash. One where they’re posing for someone else taking the photo, Blaine grinning at the camera, Kurt turned to face him, both arms wrapped around his waist, gazing admiringly at Blaine’s face. It must have been at Brittany’s house, because the next one has Blaine exchanging intense eye-contact with Lord Tubbington, laid like a baby in his arms, whilst Kurt has one hand on his shoulder, also gazing down lovingly at the cat. The caption underneath it, in Kurt’s handwriting, written in sharpie, or some other fineliner: _The future Anderson-Hummels and their firstborn._

Why did he have to fucking call? Blaine wants to pretend that he’d been doing really well without Kurt, that it’s all his fault he’s a sobbing mess right now, that he’s just been set back weeks of progress, but he knows it’s not true. Knows that without Kurt he’s just gliding through his life like a ghost, going through the motions.

It feels a little like when he’d first started at Dalton; put the manners he’d learned from coming from a well-to-do family to good use, joined every club imaginable, charmed his way to front and centre of the Warblers, despite his smile being incredibly false, despite the uniform still feeling like a costume. He hadn’t been happy then, but at least he hadn’t been miserable. He’d been accepted somewhere, for once, and he got to drop the stupid extra clubs (lacrosse, water polo, soccer) once he’d relaxed into the security of the Warblers.

He realises, his gut roiling, there is no security left for him back at McKinley. No matter how many extracurriculars he takes, no matter if he’s student body president; what is left for him there without Kurt? He hadn’t admitted it at the time, but of _course_ he’d transferred for Kurt. Why else would he have? — Kurt’s been to his house, and, as humble as he’d tried to be about it at the time, it’s obvious his parents weren’t struggling financially with the Dalton payments.

He puts the polaroids back, gets back into his bed. Stares at his phone, discarded on the tartan duvet. Thinks about what Kurt said before he hung up; he’d said he missed him, sure, but he’d been so certain when he said there was no chance of them getting back together.

Blaine bites his fist, stifles a sob. Slides down in his bed, his bare feet ruching up his sheets. Feels his neck hit his greasy pillow, but he doesn’t even notice the texture, closes his eyes and feels hot tears on his cheeks.

Wonders if Kurt’s doing the same, all the way in New York, in the loft apartment. Probably not.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading :)  
> i .. have no idea what an ap class is lmfao so i hope the mentions of them made sense
> 
> find me on tumblr: himbosamevans.tumblr.com :)


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